


Faded Into You

by writergirl8



Series: 30 Minute Fics [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Long-Distance Relationship, Lydia's intimacy issues are literally nowhere to be seen in an ASTOUNDING plot twist, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: The flight from D.C. to California always feels much longer than it is, probably because he’s so desperate to get off the plane. Beacon Hills is by no means his favorite town in the world, but it’s still his favorite place to be. It’s where his real bed is, where Scott is, and it’s the place where he knows the streets so well, it’s almost like he’d paved them himself.





	Faded Into You

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Merry Christmas, I love Stydia so so so so much  
> 2\. Title from Some Type of Love by Charlie Puth  
> 3\. Written for Stydia Secret Santa  
> 4\. Have I mentioned today how much I adore this ship?  
> 5\. Un-beta'd and I'm sorry, but I figured it's so short that there's probably only 800 or so typos, so that's readable for sure.

“Dad, this is the _third_ chipotle you’ve passed!” Stiles yelps, smacking his hand against the window of the cruiser. His father ignores his bleat of protest with a mere glance in Stiles’ direction, speeding past the restaurant and towards Beacon Hills. Stiles sighs, slumping against his seat dejectedly. 

“And I told you the first time,” his father replies patiently, “that I have dinner for us at home.” 

“But I haven’t had chipotle since August!” protests Stiles in a last ditch attempt to convince his dad to turn around. 

“I know for a fact they have Chipotle in D.C., kiddo,” says the sheriff. “You’re gonna have to try another tactic.” 

“Were you this stubborn when I left for college?”

“Yes,” his dad says firmly.

Stiles grumbles under his breath, finally giving up in favor of staring at the palm trees outside his window. The flight from D.C. to California always feels much longer than it is, probably because he’s so desperate to get off the plane. Beacon Hills is by no means his favorite town in the world, but it’s still his favorite place to be. It’s where his real bed is, where Scott is, and it’s the place where he knows the streets so well, it’s almost like he’d paved them himself. 

Plus, it’s _Christmas_ , and while Stiles hates the fact that California doesn’t have snow, he much prefers their weather to the cold. The further away he is from freezing, the better. 

They pass Scott’s street, and Stiles looks wistfully down the road to where he knows his best friend is. Scott’s been back for a week, and Stiles itches to drive over and hunker down in their favorite bean bag chairs, play video games, and talk about nothing. They’re nineteen-years-old, but some things never change, and Stiles knows that for him and Scott, stuffing their faces with cheese puffs is going to be one of those things. 

But moments later, they’re turning down Woodbine Lane, and then they’re in front of the house and suddenly Stiles doesn’t miss Chipotle or Chick Fil A or In ‘N Out. Everything is exactly as it was when he left in August, but somehow, having been gone for so many months, he’s filled with a love for this house that he hadn’t felt since his mom died. 

So much had happened in this house, and around this house, and _because_ of this house. God, he’s glad to be home. 

“Home sweet home,” Stiles says as his dad unlocks the door. 

“Go put your suitcase down in your room,” his dad instructs. “I’ll call you when dinner’s warm, okay?”

“Sure,” Stiles says easily, and he only knocks into the wall a few times as he drags the suitcase to his room, which Stiles would consider to be a victory. 

His room is exactly how he left it— bed unmade, desk a mess, sunglasses placed on the chair where he’d accidentally forgotten them when he’d left for school. Stiles leaves his suitcase by the door, kicking it to ensure that it knows his place, and then reaches into his messenger bag to pull out his phone charger. 

That’s when he hears the small, emphatic coughing noise from his bed. 

If he knew the voice any less intimately, maybe he would have jumped. But as it is, Stiles simply stills for a moment, testing his own mind, trying to figure out if he had imagined it. Finally deciding that it’s at least worth an investigation, Stiles turns around to see if maybe, just maybe, Lydia Martin is in his bed.

She stands up when he turns around, rising from the bed slowly, like she’s letting him adjust to the idea of her presence. 

“Whoa,” he says, blinking three times. “Are you why my dad didn’t let me stop for Chipotle?”

Lydia rushes to him, wrapping her arms around her neck as she presses her mouth against his. He’d forgotten, Stiles thinks, how much he loves kissing her. He’d known, at least intellectually, that he loves kissing Lydia Martin. But the reality of it is flushed in color, in heartbeats, in the flutter of her tongue against his and the taste of remembering what she tastes like in the first place. He lifts her off the ground without thinking, hands on her ass as she winds her legs around his hips, and she groans into his mouth in response. 

“I keep forgetting how _strong_ you get during school,” Lydia sighs, tossing her hair over her shoulder so that it’s out of their way. “Remind me some more.”

Stiles chuckles, purposefully kissing the side of her mouth, getting half of her cheek. It’s goofy, and affectionate, and it makes her smirk, digging his fingers into his hair and wiggling herself over his cock. 

“God, not fair,” he mutters hotly against her neck. 

“‘Fair’ when out the window when you picked me up,” Lydia says, tilting her head for him. “ _That_ was not fair.” 

The way she emphasizes her words makes her tongue linger on the roof of her mouth, and Stiles huffs low in his chest, knowing what it feels like to have that same tongue tracing his lips, the shell of his ear, his neck, his hip bones, his dick. 

They fall onto the bed with a loud clamor and a surprised shriek from Lydia, who throws her head back and laughs. She winds her legs around him again, pulling him down on top of her, and Stiles can’t help but slide his hand up her sweater, feeling the warmth of her stomach against the palm of his hand. 

Conveniently, there’s a suddenly loud clamor from the kitchen that causes both of them to startle. They pause, staring at each other in concern, waiting to see if Stiles’ dad enters the room. When he doesn’t, Lydia relaxes into the sheets, and Stiles lowers his lips to hers again, trying to keep the urgency out of his kisses. 

“How’d your finals go?” he asked, mouth smushed against hers. 

“Mmph, good, I—” She trails off when his hand finds the material of her bra, squeezing lightly, relearning what it feels like in his hand. “...what were we talking about?”

“Your classes,” says Stiles, scraping her neck with his teeth. “You were about to say a bunch of words I only half-understand.” 

He shudders as he feels Lydia’s foot slide up the back of his leg, her hands sliding inside of his jeans and his boxers. 

“We’ve been talking every night for the past two months,” she murmurs. “I’m momentarily sick of talking to my boyfriend. I think he’d better do something else with his mouth.” 

Stiles moans, heart quickening at the idea of what he could do to her. He could suck on her tits; draw her nipples into his mouth and lave at them like he’s been wanting to do all semester. He could kiss her until they’re both weak in the knees. He could fuck his tongue into her and watch her melt against the sheets above him; fall apart on his tongue. Or he could— 

“Dinner’s ready!” his dad yells, pulling him back to reality. “Get out here, kids!”’

“Oh.” Lydia’s disappointment is evident even in that one word. 

“Yeah, my dad’s here.” 

“You forgot too?” “We haven’t had sex in two months. Of course I forgot.”

She kisses him, chaste this time. 

“After dinner, then?”

Stiles sighs in exaggerated dreaminess, flopping onto his back. 

“I’m gonna give you the best one minute and forty seven seconds of your life, Lydia Martin.” 

“A tall order,” she teases. “And oddly specific.”

“I’m a detail-oriented person,” he explains. “You may have heard that, once or twice.”

“It was on your resume when you applied for the position of ‘boyfriend.’” 

He groans at the word ‘position.’ 

“Speaking of which—” 

“We can spend those how _ever_ you want to. But I have to warn you that I will probably need one minute and _fifty two_ seconds, so you’d better work your ass off to make up for the disparity.” 

“You know I’d do anything for you.” He grins, sweeping some hair away from her face. “God, I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you too,” she replies serenely, eyes skidding back and forth across his face like she’s trying to take everything in. 

“It didn’t occur to you to tell me that you’d be in my room when I got home when we were talking last night?”

“You were _packing_. And sleepy. I didn’t want you to get…. distracted.”

“I mean, that’s a cute thought, but you know you’re basically distracting me twenty-four hours of the day, seven days a week _regardless_. What was it really?” 

Lydia shrugs, expression thoughtful as she gazes up at him. 

“I don’t know. I guess maybe… I know it’s something you would do for me. So I wanted to do it for you too.” 

“Oh,” he says, suddenly just as knocked-off balance as he was when she’d first shown up in his bedroom. Lydia doesn’t say anything, just keeps _looking_ at him, and then he has to kiss her, he’s got no choice. 

“STILES!” hollers his dad from the kitchen, sounding twice as irked as he had the first time, and the two of them part guiltily mid-kiss. 

“The jeep. After dinner,” Lydia promises, with a seriousness that would imply they’re about to go on a secret mission. 

“Okay.” He gets out of bed, then helps her up too, hand on her back as he guides her through the door frame. “But in the meantime, get ready for a round of under-the-table-footsies that’s gonna rock your world.” 


End file.
